The Eulogist
by Verbal Kint10
Summary: What House learned about his father and himself when giving the eulogy in Birthmarks. House's POV.


**The Eulogist **

There's so much I want to say right now. And that's weird, because it's the first time I've ever really thought about him in a way that transcended my opinion of him. And that's weird in itself, because when the fuck did I start censoring my own thoughts?

And suddenly I have less to say. Suddenly I'm a quiet little schoolgirl who eats lunch alone and brushes her teeth three times a day. Suddenly I'm ten years old and I've yet to see my own penis. Because these, these right here, these are just words. And words can't make dead people not dead. And words, I swear to you, cannot make me hate him any less. Even if I'm the one speaking them.

I look over to his casket, to his paper-thin skin and plastic lips and fingernails. There's a sock stuffed in his pants, I'm sure of it, because there's just no way. The wrinkles on his face are deep now, like pieces of tree bark. He looks like shit. How could I not be happy?

And it occurs to me that I should probably be speaking now, that the period for quiet reflection is over and that I should now proceed with singing his praises and spilling my tears and snot all over this podium.

But instead I look at Mom. Her face is burrowed in a tissue and she doesn't see me, which seems fitting, considering the times she mysteriously lost her eyesight when he and I were in the same room. But I'm not angry. Jealous maybe, but not angry. Jealous because she could cheat on him and I never could.

I look to the space next to her, Wilson's seat, hoping to find he's run away, which would also be fitting. But it'd mean I could run, too. It'd mean I wouldn't have to be here, to say this. I'd break the cripple land speed record getting out of this place and then I'd flee to Canada and wait for Wilson, and if he never came then he'd never come, and I'd eat myself to death with hot pockets instead of gourmet guacamole.

But Wilson is there, in the seat next to Mom, watching me watch him. I look over the brunt of the crowd, finally aiming my eyes at the back wall before opening my mouth to talk. I give a passing glance back to Wilson as the first syllable flees my throat, and he gives me a nod and a smile, and I wonder for a moment if maybe he's proud of me, in which case Wilson is more of my dad than my dad ever was.

"There's a lot of people here today, including some from the corps." I pause here, just briefly, to watch those lot of people. Because I've decided that this is the last time I'll see them not completely outraged. It's a pretty funny thing to think about, so I add, "And I noticed that every one of them is either my father's rank or higher," to push it just a bit further, because I now know this will be interesting to watch.

"And it doesn't surprise me." I think Wilson gets it now. Not all of it, obviously, because I'm not even sure how far I'll go, but he knows something's up, that they won't be dealing out the Kleenex in the aisles before I'm finished.

I again make eye-contact with the back wall, and I think it's the only one who doesn't flinch when I say, "Because if the test of the man is how he treats those he has power over, its a test my father failed."

Nervous eyes skim the floor now, the mouths below them whisper into neighbor's ears, and I'm having a hard time not acting fascinated. This, this right here, this is like blowing out someone else's birthday candles.

"This man you're eager to pay homage to was incapable of admitting any point of view but his own. He punished failure, did not accept anything less than..." God, what am I going to say, 'perfection?' I can't do it. I can't be a goddamn hypocrite in front of Wilson.

But for some reason, I'm finding it harder to list the differences between he and I, the things he obviously did wrong that I obviously do right. I can't tell if it's because I'm bored or if it's because there's bound to be some similarities between two people this fucked up living that close to each other. I decide that it's because I'm bored.

"He loved doing what he did. He saw his work as some kind of... sacred calling, more important than any personal relationship." I try very hard not to look at Wilson, but I do, and I know he sees it. That sliver of John House in me, the one too small for anyone but him to see.

And now I look back to Mom. I'm watching myself break her heart and I've yet to miss a beat. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. "Maybe if he'd been a better father," I say, looking only to her, "I'd be a better son." And maybe that's true. So I give her the briefest of nods and glance at Wilson. He looks down because he knows I'm talking to him, which is the only reason I can keep going. "But I am what I am because of him," I say, half-muttering…whatever it is I'm saying. Wilson looks up at the exact moment I look away. "For better or for worse." And this, this right here, I guess this is me marrying my dad's memory. And later, when he's buried in Arlington and becomes one 300,000th of the tourist attraction, I guess that'll be our prenup in action, the one saying I get a quarter of his assholery and he gets to keep his faith in God and honesty while his body gets tossed in the ground and eaten by bugs. But then, no one said divorces were easy.

And now I must add the assorted nuts and crushed candy, because there's a nail clipper in my left pocket and I'd be scared not to use it. I look directly down at the podium, where a man named Lionel Day has stored his eulogy on 'fun days with John at boot camp,' and I'm ready.

"I just..." I swallow my words and I'm proud of myself, because this is sounding convincing. "I just wish..." Yep, this is me, sloshing the spit around in my mouth as I hunch my shoulders and shake my head. Wilson'll know by now. The two times he's seen me cry it hasn't been without me looking straight up and pretending not to cry. However, it's quite different pretending _to_ cry, and he's probably caught on. And that's fine, because we'll always have Canada.

I count to two-missisippi before I leave the podium. Wilson gets out of his seat. I make my way over to the corpse.

I look over to his casket for the first time in two minutes, and if possible, he looks even shittier. He has no idea that I'm going to chop him up. Even if I told him, even if I screamed into his ears right now, he wouldn't know that I'm about to prove that I have more of a reason to hate him than he ever had to hate me.

And who knows? Maybe that'll be enough. But if not, I still win. And that, that right there, that's all that matters.

**The End**


End file.
